Wet Nuns-Wet Nuns

Throng Of Nobs
2013

Here I am writing a review for an album that I just discovered from a band that has already called it quits. What's up with that I ask? "Sittin' on a boat, eatin' some oat, makin' a coat outta dead coyote". Those are the words that are plastered on this group's Facebook page as far as a biography goes. Alright...well, I guess that's fair enough in the grand scheme of things. I mean who am I to complain right? Then again, what exactly are we to make of this band when they lists their interests as "Women, booze, death. Enya"? The first two I can get behind and maybe I'll even level a bit of understanding for the third part there, "death". But Enya? Even I have to draw the line there. I mean sure, I've got some Enya buried deep down in my iTunes play-list, but that's a secret that no one is supposed to know about. So mums the word. Alright? Thanks. Anyway, in spite of the little bit of info we have about Wet Nuns, whose name does sound like a bad seventies porno, let's just roll on. The easiest way to describe this one would be punk blues. That's right, punk blues. Take the underbelly of blues and the attitude and anger of punk rock (and it's "three cords and the truth" outlook) and shake it up and down in a bag filled with the dirty syringes, cheap-ass beer and the rotting remains of various sewer "critters" and you've got this self-titled album just about all figured out. Sometimes it's sloppy and sometimes it's right on. It's every bit as ugly as you can imagine it would be and yet it still strikes the right cords far more often then it reasonably should have the ability to do. And even if it gets a little too far ahead of itself and threatens to descend into a bath salt-induced, "I'm gonna eat your face off sucker!", psychotic breakdown it does have it's charms. Buyer beware as always though....